Dark Waters
by Telemain's Daughter
Summary: An assignment in Siberia leads to danger and an unexpected night.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Black Widow and Hawkeye belong to Marvel, I do not own them. Lake Baikal is a real place. It is fantastic, spooky and beautiful. Google it._

Chapter One

Every fourth building was brown with blue shutters. It was starting to get a little spooky. This whole highway was a little spooky. He shifted in his seat and glanced over at Natasha, sunglasses on, head bent over her phone. She'd barely spoken to him the entire trip.

The M55 stretched ahead of them, winding away from tiny Babushkaya along the coast of Lake Baikal. They passed a blue taxi stand with "Babushkayat" in white Cyrillic chipping off the side, and then the town vanished and fell dead behind them.

"Two more miles," Natasha announced.

He grunted. He considered asking about the brown and blue cottages, why there were so many, and then thought better of it. So far, Natasha had been in a relatively good mood, and he didn't want to mess with her.

"Turn," she said.

"What?"

"Turn, you were supposed to turn back there. At the bridge."

"The railway thing? There wasn't even a turn-off—Fine. Hang on."

The Lada did a neat u-turn on the highway and trundled back to a railway overpass that edged across the top of an embankment. The white blue waters of the lake slipped up the banks and lurked between the stone walls, ice and snow still crusted along the shore. Another car, considerably less beat-up than their own rental, was parked primly on the gravel slope. The Lada lurched over the highway's shoulder and ground to a stop with a disgraceful mutter.

He switched off the ignition. "Ready?"

"Let's do this. And get out of here." The passenger door was jammed, so Natasha was forced to slide out the driver's side door after him. Cheap Soviet cars. There was something wrong with the pedals, too.

"Zdravtsvoity!" called the man in the tan suit who waited by the other car. "Hello!" Behind him five men in black trench coats piled out like a Russian luxury clown car troupe. "A beautiful day, is it not, Agent Barton?"

"It's a little cold."

"You don't appreciate a fine Russian spring?"

"I'll commune with nature when this is over, Tuprakov. Now, what's the plan here?"

"The plan is very simple. You give us the information we requested, in exchange, we give you the serum."

"Actually, there's been a change in plans." Natasha stepped forward. "New deal: I let all of you live, and in exchange, you give me Agent Barton."

"What are you speaking of, Agent Romanoff? Agent Barton is right beside you."

"That's not Agent Barton."

What the hell was she doing? "_Natasha—" _He grabbed for her wrist and she whipped her arm away.

"Three days ago my partner was supposed to return from a completed mission in Kazakhstan. Instead this man came back." She nodded to Tuprakov. "He's very good, I'll give you that. He insisted that in order to obtain the Malacorn serum an exchange for classified documents be made."

Tuprakov chuckled. "I think your partner is turning on you, Barton. Perhaps it is time to come back to us, eh, Little Natalia?"

He tried to get through to her again. "I'm your partner, Natasha—"

"If you're my partner, why wouldn't you let me see the information you're handing over?"

"It's classified. Standard protocol, you know that. This is my mission, my drop. You're just here for back-up."

The muzzle of her gun fell heavy and cool against his temple. "Wrong answer."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I revised Chapter One. You should go back and read it again. _

Chapter Two

Fake-Clint was giving her a fearful side-eye. Another mark against him. Her partner had a healthy respect for her, one he likened, being a Midwesterner, to the one he held for tornadoes, but he was never scared of her. Even if she pulled a crazy stunt on a mission, he knew enough to go along with it. Unless he was acting…

No. This wasn't Clint. She was sure. She had to be sure. More than that, she had to act sure.

"You think I don't know about your sleeper cell subdivision? The one that replaces people with trained operatives who have been altered to resemble their marks? I used to work for men like you, Tuprakov. I know all the secrets."

"And why you are still running around alive and well is a continued mystery to us all, Natalia."

"I'm hard to kill." So far hers was the only weapon drawn. Tuprakov's men had retreated to his side, the silver briefcase no longer on the bargaining table. A cold wind off the lake brushed across them. Natasha suppressed a shiver.

"Even harder to fool," Tuprakov said at last, inclining his head as if in acknowledgement of a point. "Perhaps we should have known better. Perhaps," he glared at the man next to her, "certain people should not have brought certain other people on their missions."

"It's what Barton would have done," Fake-Clint muttered.

"You? Do not get to talk." Tuprakov turned to Natasha with a smile. "Well. Now that we are all revealed to each other, what do you propose to do?"

"I want my partner back."

"So you've said. Nothing comes free, Natalia, you know that."

"You can have him." She poked Fake-Clint a little harder with the gun.

"Enh?" Tuprakov shrugged. "He is no use to us now. Try again."

Natasha reassessed, her mind whirring through the options. She had nothing with her to bargain with—she sure as hell wasn't handing over whatever the sleeper agent had been about to—but she could take something.

She cracked Fake-Clint over the head with the gun and swung around to train it on Tuprakov. The five goons instantly had their own weapons out. Standoff.

Tuprakov shook his head. "A gamble. This grows tedious, when I could so easily finish it all off. I give you one last chance to make an offer, and then both you and the useless one can die."

"Give me back my partner," she took a deep breath, "and I'll go with you."

Tuprakov's men lowered their weapons in disbelief. A glare from their leader and they quickly recovered themselves.

"You go with me. What does that mean, exactly?"

"Anything you want it to. I come back, I work for you, I give you information—although I don't promise to make it easy for you." She took two steps forward. "Now where is he? Take me to him."

Tuprakov only smiled and waited.

"He's here, isn't he?" A sudden thought tightened her chest. The lake. They had chosen to meet at the lake for more than one reason…

She pushed herself forward, shoving the gun against Tuprakov's chest, even as she felt the goons close in, the two closest blocking her retreat with guns at her back.

"I swear to God, if you've killed him—Where. Is. My. Partner."

Never breaking her eye contact, Tuprakov raised his hand and pressed a remote key. The trunk of the car popped open. He motioned towards it with his head, and two of his men moved to the back of the car.

Natasha split her gaze between the men and Tuprakov. He was still watching only her. The car juddered and rocked, and then the two men wrestled something from the trunk. Something upright. Something—someone—alive.

It was Clint. She exhaled. A black hood covered his head, and he was bound, but even so she could tell it was him. Her attention snapped back to Tuprakov.

"Put him in my car." A nod from him, and his two assistants complied, dragging Clint over to the dingy Lada and shoving him in the driver's seat. They had to scuffle the sleeper agent's still unconscious body out of the way.

She took one last look back at Clint, sitting in the car, hood still on, reacting to nothing. Something wasn't right there, but she couldn't take the time to process what it might be. She would only get one shot at this.

She surrendered. Raised her arms, two fingers only on the gun. Tuprakov made a motion for the men to stand down. The two behind her lowered their weapons, and she waited until the clink of handcuffs came from behind her—and then she struck.

Slammed the gun into one man's forehead, swung him into his partner, kicked Tuprakov in the groin on the way back around. Ducked and rolled to avoid gunshots from the two by the car, came up behind them, had the Lada open as they turned, taking their next shots in the steel door. She shoved Clint over to the passenger seat, her window cracking from another shot, one that scraped across her shoulder and buried in the seat. The car started on the first try and she rammed it into gear. Outside both men suddenly went down, and she heard the sleeper agent shouting something. She hoped he got out of the way of the car.

"—_pedals!" _

What? The agent outside was banging on her door, his face barely above the edge. "The pedals!" he shouted, before being pulled down again.

Natasha slammed on the brakes as the car began to roll forward, but instead of stopping the car slewed ahead down the gravel slip, engine gunning. One of the men had recovered enough to open fire, and she yanked the wheel to the left, stomping on the accelerator in the hope that this was the brake now.

The car spun out in the loose gravel, teetering on two wheels for one sick second, then flipping onto its side and rolling down the bank into the freezing waters of the lake.


End file.
